Love, Potter
by yulbos
Summary: ""You'll always be my bestest friend in the entire world, Evans!" He declares, his grin growing when Lily's lips twitch. She holds out the hand that isn't resting on his chest and offers him her pinkie finger. "Me too." She promises." Love, Rosie AU.
1. prologue

**so, welcome to (what is currently only the prologue of) the love, rosie au, which if you follow me on tumblr you'll know a lot about already.**

 **how this fic is going to work is that i'm writing it in long parts (how long i'm not sure yet but probably around 9000/10000 words each) and then breaking them down into smaller sections. whilst i'm not going to update this fic on here until i have an entire part done, i am uploading each individual section onto tumblr.**

* * *

The playground is virtually empty by the time James is let out to play, the rain having driven most children back into their classrooms. Lily's waiting for him under the biggest part of the climbing frame, head burrowed deep into the hood of her bright pink parka. She doesn't say anything as he approaches, merely pulls half of a cheese and ham sandwich out from the depths of her pocket and offers it to him.

He takes it and stuffs most of it into his mouth at once, chewing furiously. Lily's lips twitch at the muffled "Thanks." but she still doesn't say anything.

Eventually he's able to form actual sentences, and he looks at her from under the brim of his hood. A drop of water falls from it, landing on his nose, and he rubs at it in annoyance. "Why are you out here?"

Lily slouches against the damp wood of the climbing frame. She's soaking, but she doesn't seem to notice the way her trousers are clinging to her twig-like legs, her knobbly knees poking out from under the hem of her coat. She takes a while to answer. Not because she has to think about what she's going to say, but because she enjoys annoying him, and there's a smile curling the corners of her mouth when he sighs.

"I wanted to play this." She says at last, pulling a box of cards out of the same pocket the sandwich had been in. She pushes her hood back enough to give him a disappointed glare. "Dunno if we'll have enough time now, though."

James is instantly defensive and he makes a noise of protest. "S'not my fault! The Witch has it in for me."

Lily shakes her head morosely and shuffles the box around in her palm. "You should do your homework on time, then, shouldn't you?"

"I did!" James huffs. He shoves the rest of the sandwich into his mouth to avoid continuing the conversation, and points at the box. "Let's play your stupid game, then."

.

Lily's a lot better at this game than James is, and it annoys him endlessly. "You're cheating." He proclaims when she wins her fifth round in a row. He huffs, wraps his arms around his thin chest and shakes his head. "Told you this game's stupid."

"Am not." She pouts, bottom lip poking out unhappily. She'd pushed her hood down a while ago, and now she swipes at the damp hair curling at her temples. "Not my fault you're bad at it."

"Only 'cause you didn't tell me how to play it right." James complains, slamming his card onto the ground and hanging his head in defeat.

Lily watches him, lips pursed. "I'll get you an extra present when I'm in Boston." She promises after a moment of silence.

James gives her a level look, a thoughtful crease appearing between his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Obviously, or I wouldn't've said it." Lily laughs when James shoves at her shoulder. She shoves back, puts slightly too much effort into it, and they topple to the floor. Lily's a gangly tangle of limbs, always has been, because she never seems to grow into her height. One of her bony elbows is digging into the spot just above his bladder and it's beginning to tickle.

James' laugh is verging on giggles, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes, and he clamps a hand over his mouth. It doesn't help, so after a minute or so, he gives up trying, laughing so hard the tears start trickling down his cheeks.

Lily has him pinned, her skinny legs keeping him against the floor, and she pauses for a moment just so she can look at him. He frowns, but takes the opportunity to wipe at his eyes with the back of a fist.

"What?" He asks when she still doesn't say anything.

She shakes her head and shrugs. "Nothin'." She puts a hand on his chest, right where his heart is and her fingers tighten in the damp material of his school jumper. "We'll always be best friends, right?"

"Where did that come from?" James demands, kicking his legs slightly because they've started to go numb. "Course we will be!"

"Promise?" Lily's gone quiet, which is never a good sign, and James smiles.

"Yeah! You'll always be my bestest friend in the entire world, Evans !" He declares, his grin growing when Lily's lips twitch.

She holds out the hand that isn't resting on his chest and offers him her pinkie finger. "Me too." She promises.

.

"You won't be far behind me though, right?" Lily is saying, slim fingers curling around the handle of her suitcase. She scuffs her foot against the floor and squints up at him from behind her sunglasses.

Lying to Lily has never been fun and it has never been easy, but just this once, it is and James nods. "Yeah. There was just a bit of a hold-up with some of my paperwork." He flicks Lily gently in the centre of her forehead, smiling when she swats at him. "Cheer up. I'll be there in a few weeks. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about missing me."

Lily scoffs, grabbing James' wrist when he moves to flick her again. "As if. It'll be a relief to get away from you. No more asking me if we have homework just before a lesson. No more bad jokes that are so shit only you find them funny. No more of your attempts at making me tea."

"Hey," James protests. "My tea's not _that_ bad."

"Your tea is terrible." Lily counters, and then sniffs. She lets go of her suitcase and lunges forwards, her skinny arms like a vice around his neck with how hard she's holding on. "Okay, so maybe I _will_ miss you." She whispers, punching his shoulder when he snorts at her.

"It's only two weeks." James says, but he hugs her back anyway. She head-butts his shoulder and sighs, before she steps backwards.

She doesn't say it's time for her to go, but it's what she means and James nods. She's taken a few steps towards the gate before he speaks again. "You're my bestest friend in the entire world, Evans."

She glances over her shoulder and smiles. "Same to you, Potter." She gives him one final wave and then she's gone, disappearing in the throng of people.

He doesn't stick around to watch the plane leave.


	2. 1: a guy with a pin to burst your bubble

**so it's been a while, unsurprising really given that it's me. once upon a time i had a dream for this fic, that i would write the entire pregnancy and post it in one chapter. it's not feasible anymore, so instead i'm doing this. to anyone who's read it on tumblr, i'm sorry for not having anything new for you, but i _am_ working on it 3**

* * *

On James' list of 'Things I Would Rather Die Than Do', telling his parents that he got a girl - a girl who had been a drunken one night stand, no less - pregnant, and that he will therefore not be accepting his scholarship to New York University, sits at the very top. This, he supposes, as he watches his father read the newspaper, is what he gets for shagging Bertha Jorkins at the Sixth Form Leaver's Ball after six shots of tequila and an ominous looking pint courtesy of Benji Fenwick.

He's just about mustered the courage to say something about it, because once he starts he knows he won't be allowed to stop, when his father huffs and shuffles the newspaper angrily. "It's a bloody travesty!"

James starts, even though he can see that his father's reading the sports pages, and wipes a sweaty palm against his leg. "What's happened now?"

Fleamont shakes the newspaper again. "If United don't pull their finger out, they're going to be relegated to Division Three."

James makes a noise of understanding and offers a small smile. "That's because Atkins is a shit manager."

The corner of the paper scrunches as his father points a finger at him, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. "I wouldn't let your mother hear you say that."

James snorts and crosses a finger over his heart. "Never," he vows. He takes a deep breath, his smile dimming as he inhales. "I need to talk to you about something. About Boston."

Fleamont pauses, setting the paper down the side of his armchair and studies his son from behind his glasses. "Is everything alright?"

"I-," James fumbles for a few moments before clearing his throat. "No, not really."

There are a seconds of silence before Fleamont huffs. "I'll get your mother." He says, getting to his feet. He rubs his right knee, but doesn't bother using his cane, instead choosing to shuffle out into the kitchen.

By the time James hears him begin stomping up the stairs, his heart is threatening to make an emergency exit through his mouth, and breathing has become extremely difficult. He throws himself backwards on the sofa, the back of his head thudding against the cushion and he groans. "They're going to kill me."

* * *

They do not, in fact, kill him, as it turns out. His mother cries though, which James would argue is far worse. They take it fairly well, even, given the fact that he's not sure his scholarship will still be available to him in a year's time.

"I'm proud of you, Jamie." Euphemia says, and the nickname is enough to tell him he's still in major trouble. It makes him feel like he's five again, which in itself is oddly comforting. But the smile she gives him, however small, is genuine. "Not many lads your age would stick around to help."

James feels himself flush and shrugs stiffly at her. "I'm the one that got her pregnant. What kind of prick would I be to just up and leave?"

Fleamont hasn't really said anything in the time since James blurted out 'I got a girl pregnant', but he has moved to sit beside his son. The arm he has around James' shoulders squeezes briefly and James leans into it. "This obviously isn't… ideal," he says eventually, and the disapproval James expected to hear isn't there, or at least, not _obvious_ , "but as your mother said: I'm proud of how you're dealing with the situation. It would have perhaps been easier to not tell us, and go to Boston anyway, but you didn't."

"I think you're doing the right thing." Euphemia says. She's sat opposite them, balanced on the footstool, and she reaches forwards to brush a hand over James' knee. "We'll figure out what you want to do, once the baby's born that is, later. There isn't any rush. But we'll obviously need to let the university know."

James nods and scratches the back of his head. "Can I borrow the computer?" He asks, and Euphemia tuts in the way that says ' _You're ridiculous' 'I can't believe you're mine'_ and _'I love you'_ all at the same time. It's a mother thing, he thinks; Lily's does the same.

"Of course." Is what she actually says. She pats his leg and gets to her feet, groaning as she stretches her arms. "We'll do it after dinner." She promises with a small smile. She wanders off into the kitchen, cupboards banging as she sets about getting dinner started.

Fleamont doesn't seem as inclined to move as his wife, so James hooks his foot around the footstool's leg and drags it closer. He gets a grateful sigh in response. "Does Lily know about this?"

James hangs his head, chewing at his bottom lip. "No. I don't think I'm going to tell her."

Fleamont frowns and shuffles around until he and James are facing each other. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"Not really, but I don't know what else to do. She thinks I've just been held up and that I'll be there in a few weeks."

"So tell her the truth." Fleamont suggests. James gives him a flat look and he presses his lips together in an attempt to stop himself from smiling.

"She'll _hate_ me." James groans, and it strikes Fleamont just how _young_ his son is, despite everything he's learnt in the past few hours.

He scoffs and lifts a foot onto the footstool, hissing at the pressure on his knee. "You've known each other since you were _three_ , she's not going to hate you."

"Maybe," James generously concedes, but his frown hasn't disappeared. "She's still going to hate what I did, though."

"She'll hate it more if she finds out you lied to her."

The noise James lets out is more of a whine than anything and he thumps his head against the back of the sofa again. "I've already lied to her. What if I just tell her that there's a bigger problem with the paperwork than I first thought, and that it'll mean I can't go this year." He looks to his dad for an answer, only to see him shaking his head. "It's better than saying 'So, hey, Evans, I won't be going Boston this year because _I got a girl pregnant_.'"

"Look," Fleamont says with a resigned sigh, "you don't have to decide what you're going to tell her right this second. Think about, weigh the pros and cons first, and then decide."

James nods and then goes to help his mother finish making dinner.


	3. 2: funny thing for me to try and explain

**don't get used to regular updates, this is the last one until at least saturday**

* * *

He decides not to tell Lily, in the end. His reasoning, as he carefully explains to his disapproving parents, is that he has already begun telling _this_ lie so there's not much point starting another one, and anyway, it's not like he can't go to Boston next year instead. He hates the idea of lying to her; they've never lied to each other and the thought of it doesn't sit right with him. But he convinces himself that she'll never know the truth, and so he lies.

He decides to tell her through a postcard, a time-honoured tradition in their relationship that started when they were six years old, because the idea of telling her in person makes him hyperventilate. It takes him about twenty minutes to stop panicking just from dialling the first three digits of Lily's phone number in Boston. He buys the postcard from one of the touristy shops they always complain about, picks one with an obnoxiously large picture of the Radcliffe Camera on it, and tries to make his large handwriting small enough to fit everything on the back.

He's just finished signing off when his mother strolls into the kitchen, takes one look at the back of the card and laughs. "Why didn't you just write her a normal letter? You know, with pen and paper?"

"Because," James says, paying extra care to stick the stamp on correctly, tongue poking out slightly as he aligns the corners, "Lily likes postcards." He says it as though that is explanation enough as to why he's crammed the piece of card with as many words as possible.

Euphemia doesn't bother disputing his logic, and chooses to nod. "Are you going to post it, or am I?" She asks instead. Her handbag is in one hand, her car keys in the other.

James sighs. "I will. I'm going to see Bertha later anyway, so I might as well."

"Alright. Well, in that case, I'm off." She presses a kiss to the back of his head, then exits through the back door where he can hear the gravel drive crunch as she walks out to their car. There are a few moments of silence before the engine roars to life, before it fades as his mother drives off.

He doesn't have anywhere to be for the next few hours, a bonus of Bertha working the early morning shift at Tesco, so he pours himself a large bowl of the sweetest cereal they have and takes a mouthful of milk from the bottle before putting it back in the fridge.

 _Dexter's Laboratory_ is on Cartoon Network and James settles down on the deep-seated, floral sofa in the living room, kicking his feet up on the pouffe. He hears the beginnings of his father waking up upstairs and grudgingly lowers the volume on the tv slightly, humming along in time with the theme tune, milk dripping down his chin as he shovels a spoonful into his mouth.

* * *

Cowley Shopping Centre is, in all honesty, a dump. It doesn't matter how recently the toilets have been cleaned, it always smells like piss; the old man who hangs around outside Woolworths never seems to be without a can of Stella; and the servers at the sad excuse of a café all look like they lost the will to live a while ago.

By the time James gets there, Bertha is sitting at one of the tables in the café, her legs stretched out in front of her as she leans back in her chair. Her hands are shoved in her pockets, with only the top of her head visible as her blonde hair stands out against the dark red parka she's wearing. She straightens when she sees James' approach, uncoiling until her entire face is visible and her hands are resting on the sticky table top.

There's a cup of lukewarm tea at her elbow, almost white with how much milk she's tipped into it, the small plastic cartons piled up on the plate her bland piece of flapjack had been on.

"Alright?" James asks as he nears the table. He drags the chair opposite her out with his foot and then sinks down onto it. The rubber stoppers on the legs squeak as he shuffles closer to the table.

"Not too bad. You?" Bertha says.

James shrugs, the smile he tries to give her looking more like a grimace, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Can't really complain." It's a lie; he's been complaining all morning about pretty much everything, including, but not limited to: the traffic, the roadworks, the bus being late, and the amount of pre-teens wandering about aimlessly. He picks up an empty sugar packet, fingers picking at it until it starts to fall apart, small navy squares drifting down onto the table top.

Bertha eyes him for a moment, her face unreadable, until she nods. "My parents want to meet you."

James freezes, second sugar packet in hand as he stares at her in mounting horror. "They want to- Why?"

She hums noncommittally, but there's a small scowl on her face. "I'm not sure. I think they want you to be involved in the 'decision making'." As soon as she's done making quotation marks with her fingers, she shoves her hands back into her pockets.

"I thought you didn't want to keep the baby after it's born, though?" James frowns, moving onto the third packet and ripping into it.

"I don't." Bertha snaps, shifting so she's leaning further towards him, and she lowers her voice a little bit. "I think they want you as involved as possible during the… during the pregnancy."

James considers asking her what exactly it is they think he can help with, but the look on Bertha's face stops him. He fights down the bile in his throat, rolls his shoulders and swallows. "Alright. I'll meet your parents."


	4. 3: season of the wake

James agrees to meet Bertha's parents the following Saturday, as it's a day where neither of them are working. After that, James' entire week pretty much goes straight to shit; his anxiety refuses to let go of his stomach for more than five minutes at a time the whole week. He refuses to believe that the reason Bertha's parents want to meet him isn't so that they can kill him and then bury his body on their estate, despite his mother's assurances to the contrary.

By the time Saturday actually arrives, James is a ball of nerves. His parents are both out when he has to go and meet Bertha, and his hands shake so badly as he's locking the back door that he drops the keys three times before he manages to turn the lock. The walk up to the bus stop isn't too bad, but the underpass stinks so strongly of weed that it starts to give him a headache, and he just misses the bus, too, which is an excellent precursor to how he thinks the rest of his day is going to go.

Why Bertha can't just come and get him, he doesn't know, but she'd made him promise to meet her in Cowley. So he ends up standing at the bus stop for another twenty minutes, shivering, because summer doesn't exist in England and their one day of sun had been last week. He pulls the hood of his jacket up when it begins to rain and sighs heavily. By the time the next bus actually shows up, he can't feel his fingers and his teeth are beginning to chatter. But the bus driver shares a commiserating grimace with him, which perks him up a bit.

Bertha is already waiting for him when he eventually reaches Cowley, haggard and pissed off, and ready for the day to be over even though it's only ten in the morning. She waves a hand when she sees him, looking as miserable as he feels and as he approaches, she pushes off of her car.

"You're late," she grumbles when he's close enough to hear her, squinting when a blast of cold wind whips past them, causing some of the hair that's escaped her ponytail to go flying into her face. She swipes at it in irritation, a move that is so utterly _Lily_ it makes James pause for a second. Once she's righted herself, she gives him an expectant look and her foot looks like it's even on the verge of _tapping_. James has never known how to deal with tapping, because it usually signifies a source of irritation he can't see or do anything about. This time, though, it seems pretty obvious.

"Sorry," he mutters, scratching behind his left ear and smiling sheepishly, "traffic was a nightmare."

"S'alright." Bertha snorts out a laugh and her mouth quirks up in a quick grin. "You eaten yet?"

"I-" James begins, and then frowns. "No, actually." He'd had tea, though, and that was as good as a full English, in his opinion.

"Fancy going to Greggs?" Bertha asks, sauntering off in the direction of the shopping centre, having already locked her car.

James hurries after her, legs burning as he walks up the hill to the traffic lights. The light is red for them, which is alright by James because it gives him a chance to catch his breath. "Always. Greggs is the only saving grace in this shithole."

Bertha shoots him an amused look. "Oi, don't forget Woolies. The backbone of Britain, that is."

"I'll give you that." James says with a nod. "What would we do if we couldn't buy a TV and pick 'n' mix in the same place?" He pauses for a moment and then groans. "Now I want pick 'n' mix."

Bertha's laugh is nearing a cackle and it earns them a disapproving glare off an old woman with a heavy perm, but Bertha is already crossing the road, as the green walk sign flashes at them. She elbows him as they walk, putting her whole body into it so that they stagger sideways a few paces, and grins when he nudges back. "Well," she says once they've reached the other side of the street and righted themselves, "you can have one or the other, but not both."

James is laughing when he shoves her again.

* * *

Given that it's eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in the middle of the summer holidays, Gregg's is surprisingly empty when they get there. The woman behind the counter offers them a smile that is only just on _this_ side of welcoming, but James knows she's probably been on shift for at least five hours already, and so finds it in himself to forgive her. Not that he shows it, of course; treating civility with general disinterest is the British way of life.

"Good morning! How can I help?" The woman says, and if it wasn't obvious that she was miserable before, it certainly is now. James does the polite thing and keeps his mouth shut.

Bertha steps forward, after shooting him a warning look to behave himself, and smiles. "Morning! Do you have any egg breakfast rolls left?"

The lady behind the counter takes what, in James' opinion, is an unnecessarily exaggerated look down at the display case, and then nods. "You're in luck, there're only two left."

"One of those then, please. Oh, and a tea, please." She already has the correct change in hand, and shrugs at the confused look James gives her. "Early shift at Tesco means takeaway breakfast."

James nods, but he still looks, and feels, confused. But then he realises that the woman behind the counter, who's nametag reads 'Dawn' now that he's close enough to see it, is watching him expectantly. "Uh," he glances down at the display case and swallows, "a bacon breakfast roll and a tea as well, please."

Dawn rattles off the price, and James roots around in his trouser pocket for the right amount of change. He hands it over with a thin smile and gingerly takes the piping hot cup she offers him. A few seconds later she hands him his roll in a paper napkin, and the smell of bacon makes his mouth water slightly.

"Thank you!" Bertha calls as they leave the shop. The sun's come out whilst they've been inside, and weak beams of sunlight are streaming through the skylight of the shopping centre.

The old man is in his usual spot outside Wilkos, an empty can of Stella already at his feet, on its side, as if showing anyone who looks at it that it's empty, and he has another can in his hand. He grins when he sees Bertha, missing too many teeth for James to be entirely comfortable with, and shakes the can at her in greeting. "Morning, missy."

"Morning, Ern." Bertha says, reaching out to grip his hand between both of her own. She returns his smile as her thumb rubs circles into the wrinkly skin of the back of his hand. "How are you doing?"

"My knee's been giving me the jip, but otherwise, I can't complain, love. I can't complain." 'Ern' says. James is standing a few paces away, slowly eating his roll but he freezes when the old man's eyes land on him. "Who's this, is he your _boyfriend_?"

James scoffs and shakes his head. "Nah, she's far too good for me!"

Ern full-on cackles, and it sounds suspiciously similar to Bertha's laugh. He rocks backwards with it and the beer tinkles against the sides of the can. "That she is, lad. Our Bertha's far too good for anybody!"

Bertha snorts around the sip of tea she's just taken, and rubs a hand across her chin to get rid of the small amount of excess spray. "I'm not sure that's true, Ern. If I were a few years older and you weren't already married…" She trails off and shares an amused look with James.

Ern laughs so hard he begins to wheeze, thumping his chest with a fist a few times. "Alright, luvvie. Try telling that to my ex-wife."

"I would!" Bertha declares, spreading her arms out defensively. "You're a right charmer, Ern, who could say no to you?"

James doesn't say the 'plenty of people' that runs through his mind, but he doesn't need to, because Ern does it for him. "Lotsa people, love. Now, you'd best be getting on, hadn't you? 'M sure you've got better things to be doing than talking to me."

"Want to get rid of me already?" Bertha asks, already backing away. "I see how it is, Ern, I see. I won't bother coming to see you next time I'm here." She winks at him and raises her cup of tea in a toast.

"'Course not." Ern makes a shooing motion at her and chuckles. "Go on, get."

"Bye, Ern!" Bertha calls, giving him a last wave and the turning on her feel. James hurries after her, with an awkward grimace and an aborted attempt at a wave.

"Know him well, do you?" James asks when he manages to catch up, and they're far enough away Ern can't hear them. It comes out accusatory even though that's not how he meant it and he barely holds back his wince. Bertha shoots him a Look, one that makes him _actually_ wince this time. "I didn't mean-"

"Oh, I know." Bertha interrupts him, her lips pulling upwards at the corners. "I just like winding you up."

"Thanks." James says with a mock scowl, his tone letting her know he isn't really annoyed. "But seriously, how _did_ you meet him?"

"He used to buy me and my mates alcohol when we were sixteen." Bertha answers, completely unapologetic, and it startles a laugh out of him.

"Well, that's one way of doing it, I guess." He says, throwing his now-empty paper cup in a nearby bin. He brushes a few bread crumbs off his tshirt and then throws the napkin in the bin too.

Bertha seems to notice she hasn't really touched either her roll, or her tea, and she takes a quick sip of tea. She winces and makes a disgusted noise, "It's cold!" She complains, frowning when James snickers at her. "Bloody Ernie." She shoves half the roll in her mouth and starts chewing furiously, unconcerned at how disgusting it is.

"Bloody Ernie." James agrees as they head out of the shopping centre and back towards the traffic lights.

* * *

By the time they get back to Bertha's car, it's nearing quarter to twelve, and Bertha suggests that they leave for her house.

"I said I wouldn't be out long," she says as she unlocks the car, "and that was about two hours ago, so they'll be expecting me back fairly soon."

"Alright," James says, apprehension coiling in his belly, and he suddenly regrets agreeing to breakfast, seeing as how he currently feels like it might make a reappearance relatively quickly. He doesn't give himself any time to reconsider this whole situation, however, because he knows he'll just go and catch the bus home if he does. So he pulls open the door and sinks down into the passenger seat and clips the seatbelt closed with a sigh so heavy he feels it in his soul.

Bertha watches him through the window, with an expression he doesn't know her well enough to read. She seems to shrug to herself, and then her door opens and she climbs in as well. "Ready to get going?" She asks, giving him the same strange look again.

"Honestly?" James says, settling himself more comfortably in the seat, "I'd rather die."


End file.
